


My World on Your Palm

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Fetish, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless appreciation of Pippo's beautiful hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 16:29:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3495191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Riccardo might be just a little bit in love with Pippo’s hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My World on Your Palm

Pippo has beautiful hands.  
  
Riccardo has known this as long as he has known Pippo, but he truly realizes it only after he returns to full training following his injury.  
  
Pippo’s fingers are long and thin, matching the rest of his body, and his short fingernails are always clean and well-maintained. The lines on his palms are clear and the veins on the backs of his hands shine through the skin, as if inviting Riccardo to touch them.  
  
Pippo’s hands always feel warm. Riccardo knows this from all those times Pippo has touched his arm or shoulder while talking to him – Pippo is a very physical person – and from that one time the coach caressed the back of Riccardo’s neck as he was telling him how happy he was to have him back on the team.  
  
One of the most distracting things is the way Pippo expresses himself with his hands. His hands are always moving, explaining formations or emphasizing his words. And even when he stops talking with his hands, he still keeps using them: touching his lips, scratching his nose, fixing his hair…  
  
Most of the time, Pippo’s hands make it practically impossible for Riccardo concentrate on what the coach is saying to him, no matter how important it might be.  
  
He might feel bad about not paying attention, if every ounce of his concentration was not focused on  _not touching_  and  _not thinking_  how those hands would feel on his body.  
  
“Are you listening to me, Riccardo?” Pippo asks sharply, waving a hand in front of Riccardo’s face, his tone pointedly annoyed.  
  
“Sorry, what was that again?” Riccardo snaps back to attention. He catches the distracting hand with his own, his fingers wrapping around Pippo’s longer ones, and pushes it down forcibly.  
  
His fingertips brush against Pippo’s palm – it is surprisingly soft and warm despite the harsh winter weather – and he lingers on the touch a bit too long before pulling his hand away. His face feels hot, the blush probably spreading all the way up to his ears.  
  
Pippo meets his gaze squarely, studying Riccardo’s face for a moment, and then he goes back to his earlier topic – the tactics of the next game – and Riccardo can let out the breath he is holding.  
  
Pippo finishes the talk and leaves Riccardo with a final pat on the cheek, his fingers uncharacteristically cold against his heated face.  
  
There is a tug of arousal in the pit of Riccardo’s stomach. He has to close his eyes and force himself to think about something decidedly unsexy – dirty underwear in the locker room after training, Giampaolo’s bare feet on his previously clean coffee table, Galliani in a tiny speedo – to stop himself from getting a hard-on.  
  
Pippo is looking at Riccardo when he opens his eyes. He has his thumb pressed against his lower lip contemplatively, although he drops it when the moment he notices Riccardo is looking back at him.  
  
Riccardo is half-hard and even the thought of Mexes’s dirty socks cannot help him now.  
  
  
  
“Riccardo. In my office. Now.”  
  
Pippo does not raise his voice, the whole command spoken in a calm, even gentle tone, but still Riccardo can feel his heart rate fastening. The sight of Pippo gesturing with his hand for him to follow does not help, either.  
  
Riccardo follows the coach without saying a word – up the stairs, through the first door in the corridor – wordlessly telling himself there is no way Pippo knows, that there is a number of reasons why the head coach could need a word with his captain.  
  
Except they had had that meeting with the rest of the coaching staff earlier today. The rest of the night is supposed to be free time, so the players can spend time with their new teammates in Milanello and find a new sense of cohesion before tomorrow’s game.  
  
“Relax, I just want to have a word with you,” Pippo tells him with a soft chuckle as he closes the door behind them. Riccardo follows his movements with his eyes, watching as Pippo turns the lock with his long fingers.  
  
Riccardo feels trapped, but even as his body is getting ready to bolt, the familiar tug of arousal is spreading from his abdomen towards his crotch.  
  
“Sit, I’m not going to bite you,” Pippo tells him softly. He bypasses the desk and sits down on the edge of the carefully made bed instead. He pats the mattress next to him invitingly, his open palm leaving wrinkles on the bedcover. “I’d offer you something to drink, but you need to keep a clear head for tomorrow.”  
  
Riccardo doubts he can keep his head clear with Pippo on the sidelines, giving instructions with his hands, lively and beautiful and erotic…  
  
Riccardo sits down quickly, crouching just slightly to keep the embarrassing bulge in his pants out of view. He pointedly avoids looking at Pippo’s hand that is still resting on the bed between them.  
  
Riccardo has been balancing on the line for too long – so long that a mere thought of Pippo’s hands is enough to turn him on – and he has no idea how to make it stop. But it has to stop, because there is no way he can be of any assistance to the team when he is like this.  
  
“I’ve noticed you’ve been really distracted lately,” Pippo says. The words register in Riccardo’s mind only belatedly, and he is slow to meet Pippo’s eyes. “I know how hard it must be for you, returning from an injury like that. No one’s expecting you to perform miracles. But the team needs you – they need you to be their captain.”  
  
Pippo reaches out to press his hand on Riccardo’s shoulder and Riccardo jerks back from the touch immediately, a small sound of surprised discomfort escaping his lips.  
  
Riccardo’s face heats up and he looks down at his own hands, fingers gripping his thighs, arms only half-covering his crotch. He does not dare to look at Pippo. He just wishes the coach does not try to touch him again –  _don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch…_  
  
“Don’t touch me,” the whisper comes out involuntarily, and Riccardo ducks his head even lower when he realizes what he just said, embarrassment almost overpowering his arousal.  
  
“Okay, I won’t,” Pippo replies calmly. From the corner of his eye Riccardo can see him pulling his hands into his own lap. “But I want you to tell me what’s wrong. You were so determined to come back, but now it seems like you’re not even with us half of the time.”  
  
Pippo lifts his hand to run it through his own hair, the dark strands slipping through his fingers. Riccardo cannot help but follow the motion with his eyes, fixated on the way Pippo scratches the back of his ear. Riccardo barely hears Pippo’s self-conscious chuckle.  
  
“I don’t want to jump to conclusions but— is it something about me?” Pippo asks quietly, dropping his hand back to the mattress, allowing Riccardo to focus on his face again for the moment. “I feel like you don’t even listen to me most of the time. Did I do something? Do you have something against me coaching the team?”  
  
They have both heard the rumours – the ones that are saying they have problems with each other – but until now there has been no basis to them whatsoever.  
  
“It’s not you,” Riccardo answers quietly, fighting to keep his eyes on Pippo’s even though the coach is shifting his hands again and Riccardo _wants to look_.  
  
“Good.” Pippo’s smile might be a bit uncertain but it is still genuine.  
  
“It’s your hands,” the confession comes out much more easily than Riccardo expected. He glances down at Pippo’s hands quickly – they have halted at Riccardo’s words – before looking up at his face again. “They’re— distracting, I guess? Beautiful. Maybe. No, definitely. I can’t stop looking.”  
  
“What’re you trying to say, Riccardo?” Pippo asks slowly, looking down at his own hands before meeting Riccardo’s eye curiously. “Are you saying you’re  _attracted_  to me?”  
  
“Your hands, mostly,” Riccardo corrects quickly, “But I guess you’re part of the deal as well. So, yeah, I think you could say I might be a little attracted to you.”  
  
His erection might beg to differ about the  _‘a little’_  part.  
  
Pippo actually laughs, the bastard, and then he lifts his hand and caresses Riccardo’s cheek carefully. “I might be a little attracted to you as well, Riccardo. And not just your hands.”  
  
Breath catches in Riccardo’s throat when Pippo’s fingers press against his skin, the touch sending shivers down his spine until they settle in his crotch, making him even harder. Pippo has no idea…  
  
Riccardo covers Pippo’s hand with his own, his palm pressed against the thick veins – Riccardo imagines he can almost feel the blood rushing through them – and he turns his head to kiss the palm gently.  
  
Riccardo knows that he should stop – that Pippo confessing his attraction does not necessarily mean a permission to touch him – but he cannot stop, not when he finally has the soft skin of Pippo’s palm under his lips.  
  
He traces the lines of Pippo’s hand with his tongue, leaving wet trails on each mark on his skin. He has lifted his other hand to Pippo’s wrist, holding the hand with both of his. He keeps his eyes shut, afraid that looking Pippo in the eyes might break the moment.  
  
Pippo lets out a suppressed sound when Riccardo licks his little finger before he takes the digit into his mouth, sucking on it slowly.  
  
Riccardo opens his eyes reluctantly, looks at Pippo’s through his lashes – the coach is breathing heavily, his dark eyes fixed on Riccardo’s mouth, his lips parted and the tip of his tongue peeking out between his teeth.  
  
“You’re really hot like this,” Pippo tells him quietly, his voice constrained.  
  
“I really like your hands,” Riccardo whispers back as he releases the finger from his mouth, scraping his teeth gently on the soft skin. He kisses the tip of the next finger, his tongue darting out between his lips just enough to taste the delicious skin again.  
  
“So you’ve told.” Pippo makes no move to push things any further, allowing Riccardo to suck in the next finger, and the next, and the next… Riccardo lets out a surprised moan when it is Pippo who presses his thumb against his lips and into his mouth, caressing his teeth and his tongue curiously.  
  
It is strangely erotic – more so than Riccardo has ever experienced – and so intense that Riccardo thinks he could come from just that: kissing and licking and sucking Pippo’s hand, every new sensation rushing straight into his cock.  
  
“Can I kiss you?” Pippo asks, carefully pulling his hand away from Riccardo’s lips. He has lifted his other hand to caress Riccardo’s neck, the warm fingertips drawing irregular shapes on his skin. “Or is that how far the attraction goes?”  
  
“It’s okay. I think I can handle it.” Laughter is bubbling in Riccardo’s chest as he says it. He moves his hands so that he is holding Pippo’s wrists, making sure he will not stop touching him. He has dreamed of Pippo’s hands on his bare skin, but it turns out nothing compares to reality.  
  
Pippo catches Riccardo’s lips with his own, firm and certain, his tongue meeting Riccardo’s hungrily. His both hands are now on Riccardo’s neck, rubbing the sensitive skin and combing through the hair curling at the back of his neck.  
  
The kiss feels good – Pippo has obviously had lots of practice over the years – but Riccardo remains hyperaware of his hands: fingers caressing his skin, tugging on his hair, tracing the shape of his Adam’s apple.  
  
Each new touch sends sparks of arousal through Riccardo’s body and Riccardo cannot help but moan into the kiss, the guttural sound pushing its way out of his throat.  
  
“Touch me?” Riccardo pleads against Pippo’s lips. He finally lets go of Pippo’s wrists to pull off his own t-shirt, revealing more skin for Pippo’s exploration.  
  
Pippo wastes no time – he presses his palm against Riccardo’s chest and pushes him down until he is lying flat on his back, Pippo leaning over him. The hand remains where it was, tracing odd shapes on Riccardo’s chest, blunt nails scraping over his nipple.  
  
Pippo slides his other hand down Riccardo’s thigh and takes a hold of the back of his knee, pulling Riccardo’s leg up against his hip. Their crotches are pressed together like this, and to Riccardo’s relief, he is not the only one painfully hard already.  
  
“How’d you like it?” Pippo asks quietly, looking Riccardo in the eyes, completely unabashed. He runs his fingers over Riccardo’s collar bones – Riccardo can feel the cold press of the ring Pippo is always wearing – while he uses his other hand to pull Riccardo’s sweatpants down to his hips. “Handjob? I’d love to fuck you with my fingers, but we’ve got a match tomorrow…”  
  
The mere thought of Pippo’s fingers inside him – long, beautiful, elegant fingers – makes Riccardo moan out loud. He bucks his hips against Pippo, his erection begging to be touched by those hands.  
  
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Pippo notes with an amused smirk. He presses his palm against Riccardo’s crotch, just barely covered by his sweatpants, earning another moan, before he pulls the front of the pants down and wraps his fingers around Riccardo’s cock.  
  
Riccardo wants to look – to lean on his elbows and actually see that perfect, perfect hand on his erection – but the mere feeling of those strong fingers running over his length is too intense. He is squirming under Pippo’s touches, his eyes fluttering shut, biting his lip to keep himself from making any embarrassing noises.  
  
Pippo is picking up his pace, fingertips teasing the tip of Riccardo’s cock with each jerk.  
  
Suddenly Pippo’s free hand is back on Riccardo’s face, thumb rubbing his bottom lip, and Riccardo catches it with his mouth immediately. He twirls his tongue around the thumb, sucking the whole digit into his mouth, small needy sounds falling off his lips with each new suck.  
  
Riccardo is close. He wants it to last forever, but at the same time he does not want Pippo to stop, does not want to release Pippo’s hand from his lips. So he just keeps rolling his hips, bucking his cock into Pippo’s hand – and then he catches Pippo’s index and middle fingers inside his mouth, moaning around them as he comes, waves of pleasure crashing over him too fast, too soon.  
  
“Wow,” Riccardo whispers when Pippo pulls his fingers out of his mouth. Riccardo’s breath is staggering, his heart rate slowly returning back to normal. He raises himself on his elbows, looks down at Pippo’s hand still fondling his cock.  
  
“Wow to yourself,” Pippo retorts with a crooked smile. His erection is still pressed against Riccardo’s thigh. “Do you have any idea how amazing you look when you come?”  
  
“Probably not as good as you,” Riccardo says softly. He reaches down to take a hold of Pippo’s wrist and pulls his hand up to his lips. His own come tastes bitter, unpleasant, but it is definitely worth it when he can feel Pippo’s eyes on his lips, can hear his breathing getting more ragged.  
  
Riccardo licks each finger clean, careful not to leave any spot unattended, holding Pippo’s gaze challengingly. He could swear Pippo’s erection grows even harder against his thigh.  
  
Riccardo presses one more kiss on Pippo’s palm once the hand is clean, lingering there for a moment, his tongue darting out to trace the deep and clear lines.  
  
He sits up abruptly as he releases the hand, forcing Pippo to sit back as well. He pushes his hand under the waistband of Pippo’s pants without giving him time to collect himself, fondling the cock that practically twitches at his first touch.  
  
“How close are you?” Riccardo asks in a husky voice, leaning in until their lips are a mere breath apart. “How much did you enjoy watching me?”  
  
Pippo does not answer in words, only crushes their lips together in an urgent kiss. It is not nearly as controlled as the one before, Pippo’s whole attention fixed on just  _tasting_  Riccardo, feeling him. The taste of Riccardo’s sperm mixes on their tongues.  
  
It does not take more than a few firm strokes before Pippo spills his seed over Riccardo’s hand, a breathy moan swallowed into the kiss. Riccardo feels irrationally proud that he could make Pippo lose control like this.  
  
“Look what you did – I couldn’t see your orgasmic face at all,” Riccardo whines playfully as he breaks the kiss, a cheeky smile tugging on his lips. He brings his soiled hand to his lips and sucks in the tip of his middle finger, tasting Pippo’s come. “At least you taste better than me.”  
  
“Does that mean you want another round?” Pippo asks in a low voice. He has his arms wrapped around Riccardo’s waist, his hands splayed on his still bare hips.  
  
“Maybe...” Riccardo presses his fingers against Pippo’s lips, delighted when the coach’s tongue darts out to lick off the sperm. “Though I’d prefer to talk about something a bit more permanent...”  
  
“I think that can be arranged – as long as it doesn’t affect your performance on the pitch.” Pippo is obviously trying to hold back a smile. He takes one of Riccardo’s fingers in his mouth and sucks on it gently, his dark eyes never leaving Riccardo’s.  
  
That night in Milanello, Riccardo realizes that while he might be a little bit in love with Pippo’s hands, the man attached to them is not that bad either. Not bad at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Pippo’s hands are flawless. If you disagree with me, you obviously haven’t looked close enough.  
> Yup, that’s all I have to say about this fic.  
> Feedback would be lovely!


End file.
